I’m in the same scene I was in with Smith a few minutes ago. But this one is real—it’s Smith, sitting in jail in the physical world. There are no specific indications, I just know.
I look over and for a second, I expect him to jump up and attack me.
But he sits, slumped against the wall, his eyes unfocused, just like before. I’m confused for a moment until I see that blood is pooling out of his ears. Not like in the memory of him with Sierra—not the trickle he somehow managed to live through. It gushes. Somehow, their connection years ago wasn’t as strong. They both survived.
Not today. He’s dead. For real. He tied our minds so closely in my second sight that he literally could not exist without me. By cutting him out of my world on the supernatural plane, I severed his life force.
The words my aunt said to me as I held the knife to Linden’s throat rush back: He’s feeding off of you. He’ll never be as strong as you are. You have to cut him off.
She knew this would happen. That he would actually die if I defeated him. That must be why she was so worried when she heard I’d been to his world—she knew the connection was stronger this time.
But she spared me the knowledge beforehand. If I had known—truly known—I don’t think I could have done it.
The vision fades and my physical sight takes over again. The sky is so bright I cringe against it after the darkness of Smith’s world.
“Oh, thank heaven,” I hear Sierra whisper, and then I see her face right above mine. My fingers fly to my shoulder where Smith shot me, but just like after the attack on Clara, I’m whole.
“Linden,” I croak. My eyes fly to where he’s lying in a snowbank, the bloody knife beside him. Although there’s a red mark on his neck it doesn’t look like I actually cut the skin. But the blood from the wound on his side has soaked through his coat.
“We have to help him,” I say, crawling over. I pull off my scarf and wad it up and press it against the gushing cut. “Linden,” I say, as his head lolls to the side. I pull his face toward me, leaving bloody fingerprints on his cheek, and he opens his eyes slowly. “Just look at me, Linden. Sierra, what do we do?” I shout, not taking my eyes from his.
“The ambulance will be here any second,” Sierra says quietly, her tone back to the calm timbre I’m used to. “I called them just before you came to. As soon as you dropped the knife,” she adds, and guilt churns in my stomach. She protected me—even at the risk of Linden’s life. “I think he’ll be okay,” Sierra says, as though reading my thoughts.
I hear the faint sound of a siren. “They’re coming, Linden,” I say, and his eyes open again. “They’re almost here. Stay awake.”
Less than a minute later, we’re surrounded by blue-garbed EMTs. I step back, letting them work. “Are you okay?” one of the EMTs asks.
“What?” I reply, wondering why the hell he even cares about me.
“You’re covered in blood—is it all from him or do you have an injury as well?”
I look down at myself. I am covered in blood. It seems particularly fitting that Linden’s blood covers my hands.
If he dies, I’ll be a murderer.
“I’m not hurt,” I say, and the EMT looks at me funny. I don’t understand why until I vaguely recognize him from last night. I said the same thing then, over and over. I wonder what he thinks of me.
And realize I don’t care.
“Can I go with him?” I ask, starting to panic when the EMTs begin to close the ambulance doors. What if I never see him again?
“Yeah, let’s do that and we’ll clean you up on the way, just to make sure.”
I’m stepping up into the ambulance when it occurs to me that I left the knife just lying there in the snow. I glance back, but the spot where I dropped it is empty. With footprints leading right to Sierra.
I look away as the doors slam shut, too guilty for any gratitude to fit in.
They take him into surgery immediately.
I feel like my entire word has been ripped to shreds. Smith is dead and because of that I will never know for sure whether or not I killed Nathan Hawkins. Smith took that secret with him. I’ll always wonder, always feel that heavy weight.
But I won’t be able to live with myself if I’ve killed Linden. It doesn’t matter that I was under Smith’s control—he picked the right victim. If Linden dies, I’ll be broken.
Linden’s parents come rushing in minutes after the doctor talks to me. I tell them what he said, but when they ask me what happened, all I can say is, “I don’t know,” as endless tears trickle down my face. Linden’s mother squeezes my hand and whispers something soothing, but I don’t deserve her comfort. I don’t deserve to even be in the same room as her.
It’s over an hour before the doctor comes out. When he says Linden’s fine, I’m as near to fainting as I can ever remember. “No vital organs were hit,” he says, “just some muscle walls. A fairly shallow cut. He’ll have a brag-worthy scar to show the ladies,” he adds as he winks at me. I want to claw his eyes out.
Linden’s parents and I go to his room where we sit and wait for Linden to regain consciousness. Every second feels like an eternity as I sit there staring at his pale form.
Finally his eyes blink slowly, like they did out in the snow. We all jump up and surround his bed, his parents each reaching for a hand. I feel like a traitor; I shouldn’t be here.
But I have to be. I have to know.
A nurse walks in with a grin and shoos us from his side. She pulls out a chart.
“Well,” she says in much too chipper a tone for my taste, “do you know your name?”
“Linden Christiansen,” he says, and though his voice is a little hoarse, it’s strong.
She asks him a few more questions, his birthday, how old he is, what grade he’s in. Then she asks him what he remembers about today.
I’m standing near the head of his bed in the opposite direction of where he’s facing—I’m not actually sure he knows I’m here. When he starts to speak, I shrink even farther back.
“My girlfriend came over.” My hearts gives a tiny leap at the word girlfriend, even though I know I’ll never hear it again.
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“Charlotte. Charlotte Westing. We went for a walk. We left the sidewalk and then—”
I suck in a breath and get ready for my world to turn upside down. For everyone to turn their eyes to me in accusation and hatred. Both of which I completely deserve.
“I guess I tripped and fell on some kind of wicked rock or something. I don’t know. But it was an accident,” he says, and his voice is solid, sure. I would never have believed he was lying.
“Of course it was. It must have been a really sharp rock. The doctors said the wound was narrow and shallow. Almost like a knife.” She laughs wearily. “Hopefully our days of knives are over. With the Coldwater Killer behind bars, I tell you what, we are more than happy to be back to just accidents where everybody lives.”
“Amen,” Linden’s mother says quietly.
My knees are so weak they’re barely supporting my body. Why did Linden lie for me? And how long can we both keep up the pretense? Lies never work, not in the end. Even if they fulfill their purpose, there’s always a price.
The nurse explains that since it’s already evening, they’d like to keep him overnight for observation.
“Can we stay?” his mother asks.
“Certainly,” the nurse says. “But I’m afraid Charlotte will have to go once visiting hours are over. She’s not family.”
Linden’s head swings around. I was right. He didn’t know I was here. His eyes flash emotions so fast I can’t even begin to read them. I wait for him to speak, then wonder if the kind thing is to say something first. But I can’t make my mouth obey and in the end, I simply duck my head and walk out of his room.
I’m ten steps beyond the door before I hear someone call my name. I don’t want to stop. Don’t want to explain any of this to anyone. But I finally
turn when I realize it’s not Linden’s mom or the nurse.
It’s Sierra.
She walks up to me tentatively, as though I’m a skittish animal who will bolt if she moves too fast. I stare at her, this woman who I’ve never quite understood, but who has more empathy for me than any other human being in the entire world. We stand there for several seconds, mere inches apart. Then she lifts her arms—a small movement really—and the barrier between us shatters. I throw myself into her arms and sob.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
THIRTY-THREE
Once again, every channel is interrupted by newscasts as reporters stare unblinkingly into the camera and report the unexpected death of the Coldwater Killer. The man who is in no databases, who carried no ID. Who, before he died, refused to identify himself by any name but Smith. The cause of death is cited as a spontaneous massive brain hemorrhage.
He’s dead.
I killed him.
I guess you could argue that it was self-defense; in the end, it truly was him or me, even if technically my heart would have kept beating. But in my nightmares last night—each time I managed to get to sleep at all—I saw nothing but myself slamming that knife into Smith, over and over. The feel of the handle growing slippery with his blood; the clack of the blade ricocheting off his ribs; his life ebbing out of him in spurts of dark maroon. I wonder how long it will be before I can sleep peacefully again.
It’s nine in the morning, yet I feel like it’s the middle of the night. I’m so tired, but I don’t dare close my eyes.
Sierra has left me alone so far. I think she’s waiting for me to come to her. To let it be my choice. But not yet. I’m too exhausted. I lay my head down on the table and soak in the cool feel of the wood surface.
My phone rings and every muscle in my body clenches in fear when I see it’s Linden.
“Hi,” I say, just loud enough for me to hear. I’m not even sure it was loud enough for him to hear.
“Hi, Charlotte.”
The phone is silent for several long seconds until we both talk at the same time. “Listen, Linden—”
“I wondered if—”
We both laugh and it’s like nails on a chalkboard, making everything worse. “Go ahead,” I say, if nothing else, to end the faux laughter.
“I’m being released at noon and my parents left to go shower and get some stuff for me. They won’t be back for an hour or two.”
I know what’s coming and I want to cry. I hoped I could get away with pretending things were normal between us for at least another day.
“I hoped maybe you could come see me before I go home.”
“Hey,” I say, poking my head into his hospital room. He looks completely normal—he’s wearing a T-shirt that’s too big for him, probably his dad’s, and he managed to get his jeans back. He’s sitting on the bed, half reclined, and he looks like he could be at his house. On his own bed.
My face flushes red at that thought and I hide it by turning and pushing the door closed behind me. I face him again, but keep my back against the door, not ready to take another step forward. Not yet.
Linden smiles and I blink in surprise. It’s not his usual winning smile; he looks sad. I expected anger, accusation, dismissal even. But sadness? I’m not sure what to make of that.
“Come here,” he says, and pats a spot on the bed beside him.
“Linden, I have to—”
“Please,” he interrupts. “Me first. Before you thank me for something I don’t deserve.”
As far as I’m concerned, he deserves everything.
“I was getting up the guts to talk to you about this when we went on our walk yesterday and everything . . . went wrong.”
Understatement of the century.
He shifts on the bed, sits up a bit more. “Yesterday, when they showed that Smith guy who killed everyone, I freaked out a little, because I recognized him. I think it was the beginning of December, I was walking down an aisle in the hardware store when he stopped me and handed me a quarter. He said I had dropped it. I didn’t think much of it except that he was weird and insisted that I take the quarter I was pretty sure I hadn’t dropped. And his hair—I remembered his gray hair because he didn’t look old enough for his hair to be so gray.”…
I nod tentatively, remembering having the same first impression of him. Vaguely I remember that it was brown in the scene of him with young Sierra. I wonder if whatever she did to him that day turned it gray. I swallow hard and force my attention back to Linden.
“Honestly I wouldn’t have thought about it again except that every morning, for reasons I didn’t understand—or question at the time—I put that quarter in my pocket. Carried it around all day.” He laces his fingers together, clenches them, pulls them apart. “And that’s when I started talking to you at school.”
I’m confused, not following his logic.
“Charlotte, I haven’t told anyone this, but I . . . Bethany and I were going out. We hadn’t said anything yet—it was only for about two weeks and we were kind of enjoying our little secret.” He looks sheepishly down at his lap, clearly embarrassed. “But since we’re being truthful, I’d liked her for ages. Like, years.”
I nod; I know exactly how that feels.
“We were together the night she died.”
I suck in a quick breath of surprise.
“Sort of,” Linden clarifies. “We were together and then I just . . . I left her. I didn’t know why. But I did. When I found out she was dead, it was like somebody ripped a hole in my chest and took out my heart. But after I started hanging out with you, the pain was more bearable. There were times I wouldn’t think about Bethany for an hour or two. And then it was a whole day. I was numb,” he finishes and looks up at me guiltily. “But I only felt that way when I was with you and so I kept calling. And texting. I didn’t mean to be an asshole—I really did think I was falling for you. But it wasn’t even that exactly, it was more like—I don’t know how to explain it.”
“A compulsion?” I suggest, the devastating truth pouring down on me like a ton of rocks.
Did you think he really liked you, Charlotte? Did you believe?
“Yeah,” he says with a nod. “Exactly. And after I saw a picture of Smith, I started to put it together. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think somehow he was controlling me”—he meets my eyes and the intensity I see there frightens me all over again—“the same way he controlled you with that knife.”
To get her out of Linden’s way. My mouth is so dry my throat hurts and I can’t speak. I sit there frozen with fear, the ache of reality hitting me in the stomach.
“I didn’t know you had anything to do with it, of course. I just thought it was me. And maybe that’s how he got some of his other victims. But when you pulled out the knife, I could tell it wasn’t you. When your aunt talked to him directly, I knew, I knew that he was controlling you too. Looking back, that must have been why I left Bethany that night. He made me.”
I nod and when I blink a single tear slides down my cheek. Linden leans forward and brushes it away with his thumb.
“That’s why I lied,” he said. “I couldn’t make you suffer for something you didn’t choose, when I’ve basically been completely fake with you for the last three weeks.”
“I don’t care that it was fake, Linden,” I say with a shaky smile. “I loved every minute of it.”
I expect my words to make him feel better, but he looks guiltily down at his hands. “There . . . there’s more.” He digs into his pocket then holds his hand out to me. I open my palm and he drops a coin onto it.
A quarter with a crack halfway down the middle. I study it and squint at a shimmering core in the middle that I’m pretty sure doesn’t belong in a normal quarter. “It’s the one Smith gave you,” I say, and it’s not a question. I put my hand into my own pocket and my fist close
s around the necklace. I pull it out and open my palm.
The stone on the silver chain has a small crack in it too. And the same kind of odd glittery metal in the middle. I didn’t notice it when I grabbed it and shoved it into my pocket this morning. Just in case.
Every time you use the necklace with my spell in it, the door gets bigger, Smith said. This is it—the spell he somehow put inside the focus stone. Binding us together. Every hour you spent using the necklace to come here strengthened my hold on you. Now I know how.
“His mind-control thing is gone. When I woke up from surgery yesterday, I was overwhelmed with grief for Beth,” Linden says, and gives me that sad smile again. “That’s when I knew for sure that I had been controlled. And that it was over. That you did something to break it. Not just for you, but for me too.”
He takes a long, shaky breath. “I know it’s been almost a month, but to me, it feels like Bethany just died.” He swallows hard. “I know this is a totally shit thing of me to do after basically making out with you for the last week, but I’m not ready to date anyone. I need time to grieve for Beth. And . . .” He pauses and blinks rapidly several times. “And I don’t know how long it’s going to take,” he says, finishing in a whisper.
“I understand.” It’s the truth. I understand more than he could ever know. More than he will ever know.
He rushes on. “I thought maybe in a few months—if I’m ready and if you’re ready, maybe we could try being friends and then . . . then see where it goes.”
For one tiny instant, I think I can say yes. But only one. “Linden,” I say, and I lay my hand on his knee, rubbing my fingers slowly up his thigh for the last time ever. Because even if he did decide he was ready—even if he did think he wanted me for real—I would always wonder if there was a lingering influence from Smith. He would know that once, when we were sixteen, I tried to kill him. And I would always have to hide that his girlfriend—his real one—died for the sole reason that the monster hunting me wanted her out of the way.